Always
by mr. eames
Summary: I watch you while you sleep, Stanley Marsh. Oneshot, complete and utter fluff. Stan/Kyle.


**Always**

**A/N**: Oh, gods, so this is my first SP fic, so don't be too harsh. I'm always up for concrit though. This is a oneshot and I have to give credit to LexiusXIV deviantART for the inspiration for this story with a few of his Style art pieces. Definitely check her out since he does adorable Style art. Anyway, I ramble. So, on with my first attempt at this. (btw, I'm a fluff maniac, so this might be too cute for the actual characterazation of the show, so warning of you of possible slight-OOC right now)  
**Disclaimer**: I know it well enough, but I don't own South Park.  
**Warnings**: Extremely fluffy slash is all this is.

It would sound really fucking creepy if I told you this Stan. Well, it sounds really fucking creepy in my head as well. At least, when I think about what you would think. I tell you everything, or at least I did. I stopped telling you everything when we were ten. It was a sleepover. Which just sounds so…overly cliché. But I can't help what happened. Watching you sleep, I mean.

For some reason I couldn't sleep. And there you were a few feet away. We had fallen asleep during some stupid movie, I don't even remember what it was. All I remember is the way that your hair was all messy, and sweaty, sticking to your forehead, your hat had nearly fallen off your head. I honestly caught myself wondering how I had not noticed how attractive you were before. Like some sort of miracle that had been there the entire time, but that had taken me so long to see.

After that things were never really the same. I definitely could have a career in acting though. Or at least get congratulated for trying. So far I haven't slipped up once, but I have come dangerously close, Stan. There have been a few times where I'm so tempted to move closer to you and lay on your chest, learn your breathing pattern and just listen to your heart beat. It's not so much a problem anymore, though. At sixteen we don't do the whole sleepover thing very often, if at all. But sometimes when we hang out, especially if it's after one of your football practices, well, sometimes you fall asleep, and…

I watch you while you sleep, Stanley Marsh. That just sounds so incredibly creepy. If anyone knew that they would label me a fucking stalker. It's not my fault that you fall asleep, though, and it's not my fault that you look so adorable while doing so. You dream a lot, if that bull shit about people's eyelashes fluttering is true. I wonder what you dream about. Then I think it must be Wendy. And then I stop thinking about what you're probably dreaming about and pretend that it must be about me.

I've had dreams about you. Nothing I remember too well. Nothing I can put a lot of detail in. They're…nothing anyone else would find exciting. But you're in them, and that simple fact makes them something to covet and something to hope for when I close my eyes at night. Doesn't this sound so…gay? Like I'm some girl pining over you and you're just so terribly oblivious to the entire situation.

Fuck. That's exactly what this is, except I'm a guy. I'm almost sure we used to make fun of girls in this situation. Now I sympathize with them. This is hell, literally. And not just hell like South Park is hell to live in, but something more like…I really feel like Satan has designed this as my own personal hell and none of this is real. Which just makes it all the worse, I guess, but here we are, hell or not.

Still, I can't believe I'm right back to where I started. Laying right next to you. I swear you're even closer this time. Earlier, when everyone was here, I wasn't feeling like this. Although when Cartman called us 'fags' and you just rolled your eyes, well, I was blushing, even though I just made it out to look like I was angry at that fatass. I really didn't mean to start punching him, but when he starts on his whole 'Jew' tyrade, well, you know me. My temper just explodes.

I do feel bad though. And really stupid. Maybe when we were nine or ten I could have roughed up Cartman, maybe even beat the shit out of him if I was sufficiently angry. But being one of the shortest boys out of our group, and one of the smallest, well…Cartman's unequivacally the largest, so me fighting against him is a joke. Still, I did get one good thing out of that fight. After everyone else went home, shortly after, you helped clean me up. Well, fuck, that sounds a lot dirtier than it actually is. I mean, all you was help clean the blood that was coming from my nose and made sure nothing was broken. In all truth I knew Cartman hadn't done that much damage, but I couldn't resist an excuse to have you that close to me.

What did I tell you?

Fucking creepy.

Now here we are, and I'm actually laying in your bed. I've never been in your bed before. I think you knew I didn't want to go home. That I didn't want my parents asking about the bruises that I had received. They'll be asking when I go home, but I didn't want to deal with that right then. And I think you really knew. Because you did that thing, where you look at me, all calculating with those, admittedly, gorgeous blue eyes of yours and said the words I hadn't heard in nearly three years. "Hey, dude, do you want to…like, stay over tonight or something?" There was awkwardness in your voice. But I ignored then and tried a nonchalant "Sure."

It came out more like someone who had just won a victory or orgasmed, seriously, it was completely embarrassing. The first slip up for the books, I guess. You went to go tell your mom and dad I was staying over and I just stayed in your living room, revelling in my luck. The entire reason I'm in your bed is, well, it's an accident. We were just talking after all. We're past that stage where you actually decide to go to bed. You fell asleep first.

Wait, I shouldn't say first. I haven't fallen asleep at all. Once again, Stan, I'm creepy. But it's not like I'm looking at you with lustful eyes and – well, maybe I am a bit. That's not it completely though. Sure, there's a certain longing in my heart and that weird feeling in my stomach that I can't quite explain, but really, it's more than that. Really, I'm trying to justify it in my mind, and it works out to something roughly like this:

While you are sleeping Stan, you are so serene looking. Like some peaceful creature without a care in the world. Part of me envies it, but mainly I just don't want that to change. When you're awake, of course, I love the way you are. But I imagine this peace must be good for you, and you look your best when you're laying next to me. I don't want that to change. You could say…that I don't watch you while you sleep, Stan.

I watch _over _you while you sleep. It's not perfectly clear what I'm protecting you from, perhaps just the world? Because I don't think you deserve the shit that's out there. More than anyone, really, I don't think you deserve it. That brings me to another startling fact. I really, really don't deserve you. I think this is one of those cases where you put someone on a pedestal and just can't even compare anyone to them, because they're so perfect in your eyes.

Would you listen to me? Since when did I get so fucking emotional? From what I've heard the other guys saying, they're basic emotions about love are that it consists of fucking then telling everyone they possibly can about their conquest. I don't know about you, Stan, you've never said anything about love, really. Nothing besides how you love Wendy, but I don't want to think about that. So what is love to me?

Is not sex. Beyond that, I have no idea, because I've never honestly been with someone before to create my shitty little concept of love. Such is being in love with your best friend, though, I suppose. There's really nothing I can do about it. I'm feeling ambitious tonight though and your shoulder really does look loads more comfortable than the pillow I've been using.

Shit, don't wake up, I'm doing this as slowly as I can, if you would just stop breathing so fucking loud…it really is better than the pillow. As my luck would have it, you are waking up, just slightly. You're murmuring something that sounds delightfully like my name. Holy shit, I think my heart just skipped a beat. Because you definitely did say my name, but followed it with a "laying on me?" At least I'm half-sure it was a question. I have my eyes closed, not too tight, because that makes it so obvious I'm pretending to sleep, but just enough. I hope it looks like I'm dreaming.

I think I am dreaming. I swear I must have drifted off into a fitful slumber, because that _cannot _be your hand on my face right now. That _cannot _be your hand on my shoulder, on my chest, moving down. And if it is a dream, then it's a dissapointing one, because you stop then and I don't feel your hand again, though I desperately have the urge to open my eyes and just grab your hand, pull it to my heart and tell you that you're the reason it's beating.

And, really, fuck, I mean that, but you'd probably laugh it off, and I'd just blush for being so cheesy. After all, the only thing worse than being lovesick over you would be to spurt out some of the really horrible lines that come into my head when I think about you. The ones that are just oozing, dripping and topped with every cheese known to man. "Hey Kyle?" Your voice is really quiet for some reason, either you know I'm awake or you're testing me. I can't help it. I flinch.

"Yeah?" There might be some real grogginess in that voice, but if not, I really am one hell of an actor, because I didn't know I was this tired.

"You're laying on me."

"I realize this." My heart is beating really fucking loud right now, and if you can't hear it I'm ready to declare you deaf, because the damned thing won't shut up. I'm glad we had most of the lights turned off while we were talking, because if it was bright in this room you would be seeing me blush right now, like it or not.

You have excellent vision. "Well, are you aware you're blushing?" It must be to make up for that terrible hearing you have.

My cheeks are becoming even more flushed, I can feel the heat rising. "Yes I'm fucking aware, Stan. A person tends to notice when he's blushing." I'm babbling out things that are coming to mind, and another thing I'm aware of is that I am making little to no sense right now.

"Why are you keeping your eyes closed?" You laugh at this a bit, quietly, and I open my eyes in defiance only to realize that you are really close. Extremely close. Like, closer than I ever would have fucking imagined you would be close to me. My head is still on your shoulder, so I have to lift it up a bit to look at you, and you're _right fucking there_. I open my mouth and the worst possible thing happens. I practically squeak.

What is it now? Slip up one million of the night? A new record, I believe. This is killing me. Now I can't even talk around you, at least not when your face is mere centimeters away. "Dude…," you don't finish what you're saying and I manage a frantic look up at you. _Tell me,_ I plead with my eyes. "Never mind," you say, and I'm nearly about to protest, I think I feel my voice ready to speak. "Are you feeling alright now?"

Well, fuck, did you plate those words in concern? It's probably fake, you must feel so awkward right now. Any money, I'll bet anything I have, that you were about to tell me to move away, that you need space. But you didn't so I won't. "Well, uh-" my voice starts out a bit cracked and I blush again, but continue on. "Yeah, actually, I'm not feeling too bad right now." Oh, God, that was the worst thing to say, I sound like the fucking faggot I am. I quickly grasp more words from my mind. "Sorry if I woke you up."

"What?" you say, and then, even in the darkness, I can see a small grin form on your face. "Kyle, you were asleep when I woke up. If anything, I'm the one who woke you up, unless…" Another sentence left unfinished. It's not pleasing in the least.

I don't tell you everything anymore, but you're asking for it. I'm not sure if I can refuse to tell you if you want to know. You've never _asked _me before if I find you to be the most attractive person I've ever known, so I haven't felt the need to tell you. This, however, is about to slip to you. "I've been awake." _Fucking…shit. _

"Just awake?" you say. "For how long?"

"I…I haven't slept," I respond, the blush once again creeping its way onto my cheeks, and I, not thinking, bury my head in your chest, not wanting to say a word more. And is…is it just me or did you just intake sharp breath at that contact? No, I'm just imagining things, you are probably just shocked that I'm doing this, you want me off of you.

"What have you been doing this entire time, then?" Why in the fuck do you have to ask me the one question that I most don't want to answer? Could we not just leave this at the fact that I can't sleep, simple as that? Apparently not. "Kyle…what have you been doing?" You're so fucking insistant.

"S'creepy," I say into your chest. You smell good, Stan. Unbelievably good. Like clean clothes and cigarettes and cinnamon. I don't know why but that's just what you smell like to me, and I can't help but savor the smell of you right here.

"Tell me anyway." Now you're outright demanding me to tell you. I'm not sure if you do, but you must, know that I really can't refuse you, especially when you ask in such a forceful way that makes me raise my head once more to look at you. And it's surprising. You look nearly angry, and I cower away, just slightly, shaking my head, I don't want you to know. You are going to to open your mouth again, but I let out a sigh and you take this, correctly, as a sign that I'm going to answer.

"I've been…watching you sleep," I say in a voice so low I'm not even sure it qualifies as a whisper. But it's quiet enough that you hear me and the anger is replaced by something else, your eyes look calmer now, but that look is…fathomless. I'm almost afraid you're going to go psycho on me now, and maybe you have, because you're leaning in towards me, about to rip my head off no doubt. But…no. That _cannot _have just been your lips on my forehead. But it _was_.

"Watching me sleep can't be that exciting," you say, and I can hardly believe what's going on, because you've just leaned down and kissed me on the cheek and now I'm practically looking you right in the eyes as I speak my next words.

"You don't even know."

"I don't? Well I guess, since I am asleep…but, dude…"

"What?"

"Have you ever…like, watched me before or…is this the first time?"

"It's…the first time in a whi-" Yes, I'm definitely dreaming. Only my mind could think up you ending my sentence prematurely by kissing me, softly, on the lips. It's almost like a test, like you don't know if you should but you're going to anyway, and now I've lost my breath and my eyes are wide and you just look as if it was no big deal, but there is a smile fighting to show on your face. Thank fucking God that it wins.

"I don't think it's going to be the last time, either," you say. I am not dreaming. Because even I could not think up a dream like this. This must be karma for putting up with Cartman all these years and watching you with Wendy. It's finally my turn to have something really, honestly good happen.

"Always," I affirm. "I will watch you always." You kiss me again, this time less soft, and I relax against you. I watch you while you sleep, Stanley Marsh, and fucking creepy as that may be, you don't seem so angry about it. I hope you allow me my 'always' because I don't know what I do without it.

**A/N**: Alright so, it's really hard for me to write outside of my main fandoms, so I get nervous whenever I post on a new one. Hopefully I'll get some reviews, but thanks to everyone who read regardless of whether you liked it or not. Sorry if there are any horrible grammar or spelling errors, my dyslexia has been pretty bad lately and Microsoft Word decided to fail on me for unknown reasons. Anyway, reviews make my day!


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